


The Pale Horsemen

by wholewheatpopcorn



Series: Horsemen AU [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person, horsemen au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:22:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25891276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wholewheatpopcorn/pseuds/wholewheatpopcorn
Summary: There’s a mysterious man who visits the tavern sometimes. Nobody knows anything about him or hardly ever notices him at all.
Series: Horsemen AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1878739





	The Pale Horsemen

**Author's Note:**

> Horsemen AU: Muse is one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse. He's the Horseman of Death.

There’s a mysterious man who visits the tavern sometimes. Nobody knows anything about him or hardly ever notices him at all. He fades into the shadows too often, as silent as the snow falling from a winter sky. When people do notice, however, they always say the same thing, “There’s something strange about that man.”

You don’t know when the first time you saw the man was but you know it had to have been in the tavern. You don’t think he lives in town but you can’t seem to explain to yourself why anyone would bother riding to a nowhere town like yours just to have a drink at a shabby little pub. You start noticing him, things about him, more and more. 

He looks like a porcelain doll, you think to yourself one day. There’s something about him filled with delicate beauty and hidden strength. It might be his pale face, or his long lashes, or even his strands of silky hair tied into a short ponytail. You’ve only seen it once but his eyes shine a bright cyan blue that look too vivid to be real. You’re captivated. When he moves, there isn’t a single sound produced. He glides over the floors, his long cloak trailing after him as he makes his way across the tavern. You almost wish that someone would stick a bell on him if only to better alert you to his presence. You find yourself sneaking glances at him when he visits the bar. 

One day, on a rather dull and unremarkable evening, he approaches you. The tavern is bustling with customers, as it usually is around this time of day. You’ve seated yourself at the corner of the bar, tucked away by the curtains and shadows so the customers don’t bother you on your dinner break. You don’t initially notice his approach until you hear him clearing his throat behind you. 

“Is this seat taken?” He asks when you turn around to face him. You do a cursory glance around the tavern and note that it’s rather packed with patrons. You’re a bit unwilling to give up the solitude of your dinner break but your curiosity wins over your desire for peace. 

“Go ahead.” You tell him as you push your drink to the side to make room. He seats himself with an elegance and grace that’s honestly too much for a dinky little bar like this. 

“You’re not from around here, are you?” You ask, once he settles himself down and orders some food. He inclines his head the slightest bit then shakes it. You’re a bit bemused but you take another swig of your beer and press on, “What’re you doing in a place like this then? I see you here quite often but this town isn’t a very convenient place to take a detour to.” 

He only shrugs in response. “It’s a nice place.” He tells you. A keen sense of disbelief rises in you, how could a man like him like a place like this? Shaking your head, you turn your attention back to your cooling plate of potatoes and beef. 

The rest of the night passes uneventfully. At some point you return to the bar to attend to the customers and when you turn back to check on the mysterious stranger, he is gone. 

The next time the stranger returns, you wave him over. He hesitates for a moment— you wonder if you’re being too bold— but he makes his way over to the bar anyways. “Welcome back!” You greet as you sling a towel over your shoulder. “You must’ve had a long journey here, let me fix you something to eat.” The slight smile he gives you chases away any doubts you have and you scurry off to the kitchen while adamantly ignoring the thumping of your heart. 

The man, you find, isn’t much of a talker. He speaks when necessary and responds with soft hums more often than not. He is, however, an excellent listener.

You talk to him a lot and it’s nice to have a captive audience, and it’s nice to just have  _ him  _ listening. You tell him about your life, about your job at the tavern and your dreams to become a famous chef. You tell him about your family, how your parents left you and your younger brother when you were young. You tell him about the hardships you’ve faced, about how you’re working to provide money for your brother’s education. You tell him about your neighbor, whom you call Old Lady Joan, and how she always delivers a basket of peaches to your doorstep after Sunday mass. You tell him about the gossip you hear at the bar. You tell him about anything and everything that crosses your mind. He sits there and listens regardless of the tale, silent but always attentive. 

You ask him for his name once but he evades the question. “You’ll learn my name in time.” He tells you, and you figure he must have a hard time opening up to people. 

“Where are you from?” You try and he gives an elusive smile. “Somewhere that is neither here nor there.” You throw your hands up in frustration and leave the subject as it is. 

Fall arrives and you start seeing him less. He tells you that work has been keeping him occupied. You wonder what he works as, who he works for, but he never answers your queries so you give up on asking. 

Old Lady Joan starts to bring you more peaches. “It’s harvest season.” She tells you with a smile on her wrinkled face. You don’t know too much about farming or peaches so you just accept the offerings gratefully and invite her in for dinner. The leaves fall off the trees and the world turns into a bitter gray, dusted with white frost. 

The man comes into the tavern one snowy evening with a thin layer of melting frost on his lashes. You reach over to brush it off his face and he spares you a soft smile as he leans into your touch. 

“Be careful,” He warns with an unreadable expression on his face. “Trouble is brewing in the East and I fear it will find you soon.” You just laugh and reassure him that you’ll be fine. You’ve faced adversity before, you’ll get through anything life throws at you. He doesn’t seem convinced but he says no more on the matter. 

The bitterness of winter gives way to spring and things are peaceful for a while. The tavern returns to its normal flow of business and you spend your days working and worrying about your brother’s case of seasonal allergies. The man returns once more and you find an increasing amount of opportunities to talk to him.

“This is for you.” You say when he walks in one day. He stills as you tuck a blossom over his ear. “Thank you.” He says, laughing softly, and it’s music to your ears. 

The next week he brings in a basket of fruits and drops it in front of you. “You hardly get the time to leave town.” Is his explanation and your face warms as a smile breaks over your lips. You don’t recognize any of the items in the basket but you’re excited to bring it home for you and your brother to enjoy. 

Then summer comes and in it’s sticky humidity, it brings war. 

The war starts slowly, fanning its insidious fingers across the country before it tightens its death grip and squeezes out the life in the land. 

It’s not too bad at first. At first, all you hear about the war is the passing parcels of news that travelers and newspapers bring. You read that the king has waged a war against the neighboring country and you’re not concerned. Your home is far from the border of the enemy and in a small town like this, it’s unlikely anything will ever happen. Things get a bit more expensive to buy, and you go home more hungry than not but you’re alive and you’re safe and so is your brother so that’s all that matters. 

Then the soldiers come with a decree from the king: all citizens between the age of 17 and 46 must fight in the war. It’s a draft. Your brother, who’s 12 going on to 13, begs you not to go but you tell him there’s no other choice. If you don’t go, they will take him. You ask him to look after the house, to wait for you to come back. You remind him to water the plants and eat breakfast everyday. There’s tears streaming down both your faces but you know you have to be strong for him. 

The battlefield is a bloody mess but the army isn’t so bad. You make friends with those in your squadron. There are five total. Two are old enough to be your parents. They tell you they fight to protect their daughter at home. One is a young songstress whose dreams of performing for the queen were crushed under financial hardship and debt. Another is a man who lost his parents to the war and was drafted in return. The last one is young, just barely turned 17, and he reminds you of your younger brother. You vow to protect all of your comrades. 

One by one, you watch them die under the unyielding attacks of the enemy. 

Three are slain by the sword, one has an arrow shot into her back. The youngest one gets his leg and arms sliced off but he manages to hobble out of the dirt and grime of the battlefield through determination alone. As you cradle him in your arms you curse the world, the gods, and your own inability to keep even one young boy from harm. He dies in your arms from the infections blistering in his wounds that the doctors failed to cure. 

You move stations. You meet new people. You watch them die. It’s an endless cycle of pain and death that wears down on you. You miss the days of working at the tavern, of coming home to your brother’s sordid recounts of the school day, of receiving baskets of peaches from kindly old neighbors. You miss the days where your biggest concerns were what to make for dinner that day. You’re so,  _ so _ tired. But you fight on, grasping desperately to life, in the hopes you’ll return home to your brother once more. 

You get moved to another station after a few months and your heart shatters when you come face to face with a young 13 year old boy. “What are you doing here?” You choke out and your brother looks as tired as you are and it isn’t right— someone as young as him shouldn’t be fighting in the war, he should be at home studying, playing,  _ living _ , it isn’t  _ right _ . 

“They came back a year after you left.” He says quietly. “They wanted people who were over 12.” You pull him into your arms and you’re both sobbing. You hold him tight and swear on your life you won’t let him die. 

You two are inseparable. You start giving him half of your rations just to make sure he’s eating. He protests, of course, but you tell him you’re not hungry, ignoring the gnawing pain in your stomach. It’s less important than making sure your brother, your only family, is well and fed. You keep an eye out for him on the battlefield and yank him out of danger whenever possible. You take blows for him and the weight of accumulated injuries is heavy but nothing can compare to the mere thought of your brother getting injured. 

You aren’t careful enough. 

You hear his cry of pain and you turn around much too late. You can’t get to him fast enough to push him out of danger and you can only watch in despair as your brother crumples to the floor. 

“No—“ You rush over and gather him in your arms. “No, no, no, no, no, please, god no, not you, no, you’re going to be alright, you’re going to be fine, hang in there—“ You’ve long lost faith in God, but in this moment you are willing to beg for your brother’s safety. 

You’ve never believed in miracles but you’d do anything for one now. 

Your brother makes it but he loses his legs. They’re too crushed and infected, the doctor explains but you can’t hear anything past the ringing of your ears, he will never be able to use them again so it’s better to amputate them before the infection spreads. Your brother gets discharged from the army and you manage to convince your commanding officer to let you take a year off to help your brother recover. 

Returning home is a strange experience. The town looks deserted now and everyone left looks utterly drained. Old Lady Joan passed away a few months ago, you learn, and you have to sit down to process the information. Nearly half the neighborhood is gone, lost to the war. 

You’re so tired. 

You return to the tavern and drown yourself with alcohol. The tavern patrons share sympathetic looks and stories of their own and as the days go by your anger begins to fester. The world is full of injustice and cruelty, you decide. It is beyond saving. 

A few more months pass and a familiar face walks in. The mysterious man. He doesn’t look at he’s aged a single bit and you almost resent how he seems so untouched by the war. Still, you let him take a seat next to you as you update him on how your life’s been so far. You don’t ask how he’s been, a part of you doesn’t care anymore and a part of you knows he won’t tell you anyways. You’re trying desperately to remember the part of you that used to be enamored by his shroud of mystery but you can’t seem to find it anymore. 

“You’ve changed.” He comments, studying you curiously and you snort in response. 

“Yeah, war does that to you.” Your face sours and you take another swig of beer. 

He sighs, setting his fork down. “Yes, that’s true.” Your lips turn up into a cynical smile and you want to ask him what ailments could he have possibly experienced to compare. He, who probably hasn’t even seen a single lick of combat— it’s the privilege of the elite, you suppose. 

“But I suppose this, too, was unavoidable.” Something about the way he says it catches your attention. Your lips curl up into a shadow of a growl before you know it. 

“What?” You snap out, eyes narrowed dangerously. “You mean this? The war? The deaths? The misery?” A harsh laugh tears from your throat. “What a joke, this all could’ve been easily avoided if our king wasn’t such a hothead. The government is corrupt and doesn’t care about their citizens’ lives. There’s no reason behind it, just cold hard arrogance and greed.” People are starting to stare at the two of you now and you let them look. You know they’re interested in the conversation as well. 

He hums softly. “Everything happens for a reason.” He decides upon, after a while. “Some things cannot be controlled but all things serve their own purpose.” 

“Then explain to me this, smart ass,” you snarl, slamming your drink to the table as your anger boils over, “What’s the purpose of this war? What’s the point of famine? Of disease? Why do innocent people have to suffer for wrongs they didn’t commit? Why do good people die?” You think of your younger brother who lost both his legs to the war, of Old Lady Joan who was so grieved by the death of her daughter that she passed of heartbreak, of the children made orphans who live in the shadows of the streets, and you cannot see reason in any of it. 

“Balance.” He says simply. You want to spit in his face but before you can, his eyes meet yours and you’re frozen in place. 

“Humans are increasingly arrogant creatures. They take and they take and they take. If you give a man an inch, he will ask for a mile.” You’re trembling but you don’t know if it’s entirely because of your anger. You don’t want to know. “It’s happened before, countless times in history. When the world opens its arms, humanity fails repeatedly to meet its expectations. As you said, people are greedy creatures capable of endless cruelty.”

“Humanity, then, must be punished for its sins. It must be kept in check.” The man sits up in his seat and folds his hands neatly in his lap. For all that he’s saying, he looks surprisingly earnest. 

“You ask me the purpose of war, of famine, of pestilence. I tell you now that they exist to keep humanity in line. To ensure the balance of the planet and to test the potential of humanity.”

“War, to remind those that their actions have consequences. War, to tell those who are complacent in the witnessing of wrongdoing that their inaction will not go unnoticed. Yet, it is in war that we see the true heroes of humanity begin to shine. We see those, tired of the battle and injustice, rise to the aid of others around them and we recognize them for their valiant services. It is these people who inspire people to push for change. These people are the ones who unite many voices into one, until towers of corruption are toppled by the collective cry of those no longer willing to tolerate such facades. If you put a person in a difficult situation, you will see their true nature. The battleground, then, is the ultimate courtroom where all of humanity’s virtues and sins are brought to light.”

“Famine is the result of greed and the result of hardship. Famine is despair— it is a stark reminder that humans, no matter how intelligent or strong, are only animals. Famine is a punishment that is enacted when the difference between the wealthy and the ordinary grows too large. Above all else, people must eat and when that basic function is denied, a line is drawn. Those who hoard things as essential as food are those who are the first to be punished when a town, a city, a kingdom, gets tired of being denied their basic rights to live. Hunger and starvation are a call to attention to the systems that deprive people, and it is a call that can only be heard when enough are shouting.”

“Pestilence is a push for humanity to constantly do better. Illness and disease are such pitiful ways to perish. Why, you ask yourself, did my friend have to die of infection? Why couldn’t the doctor cure his infection? It is questions like these that push people to search for more and in this seeking they gain knowledge and understanding of the world. It is the acknowledgement of disease and the havoc it can wreck that allows people to appreciate the world and life they live in. No matter where you go in the world, no matter what the political climate is, pestilence is a constant that cannot be evaded. It can divide people, it can bring harm to those who do not deserve it. In the face of those who are determined, however, it can bind people together and serve as fuel for improvement.” 

He stops talking, finally, and you wonder distantly if this man is insane. You still cannot move, you cannot feel your legs or your lungs. The tavern is drenched in shadows that writhe with the flicker of the dimming lamplight. You can see nobody but the man before you, who looks tired all of a sudden. You’ve never noticed it before but there are bags under his eyes and his shoulders sag with a hidden weight. 

His voice is quiet when he speaks again but you hear it as clear as day. “You ask me the purpose of death, why good people die.” His head tilts and you realize dimly that you don’t think you’ve seen him blink this entire time. “I ask you, then, what is the purpose of life without death? Good things have value only because they end. People strive to do more because their time in this world is finite. There is no greater bravery than the reckless abandon of the hero who’s on the verge of death. It is the mutual fear and understanding of death that motivates people to stretch out a helping hand.”

He stands up and you stumble a few steps back without really knowing why. 

“Death gives way to life, and life cannot be sustained if it does not end at some point. That is simply how the world works.” You watch him rummage through his pockets and place a silver coin on the table. “Everything has a purpose.” He repeats. A soft sigh pushes past his lips and he lowers his gaze. He looks almost resigned. 

“I’ll see you around.” He turns to leave and vanishes through the tavern doors. Suddenly you feel as if you can breathe again. You blink dizzily and wonder if the lamplights were that bright before. The bustle of the tavern and the warmth of the nearby fireplace seeps back into your bones and it takes you a moment to realize you’re shivering. Sagging back into your chair, you pick up your forgotten mug of beer and chug it down. 

Eventually, you’re recalled to the army and you forget about the interaction you had with the strange man at the tavern. Time passes. The seasons change. Your brother grows up and while you gruel away on the dirt battlefield battling for a king who doesn’t know when to stop, you’re thankful that at least your brother no longer has to suffer under the same conditions. 

Years later, when you’re laying on the battlefield clutching the wound to your chest, you see the man again. You see him riding in on a pale horse, his cloak billowing out behind him. He stops right before you and slides off the horse, somehow untouched by the blood and grime all around him. 

As his feet touch the ground, you meet his chilling blue eyes one last time. 

“Death.” You croak out, forcing your voice out of your dry lungs. 

He smiles. 

“Hello again.”


End file.
